Seven Shades Of Elektra
by Assassin For Hire
Summary: A vignette featuring the mysterious ronin, Elektra, and her potential employer. Sensual character study on the woman everyone wants to know more about.


==================================  
**SEVEN SHADES OF ELEKTRA  
**by Krista C. (kabanas)  
==================================

  


**Paris, France.  
At this very moment.**  
  
  
L'Ermitage Des Loges stands on the left bank of the River Seine, a quaint, well-lighted hotel within the heart of the Saint Germaine-en-Laye forest. Elegant and warm, it is a complement to its tranquil surroundings, the brickwork on the outside and the woodwork on the interior speaking of the quality of absolutely perfect welcome. At night, its cozy atmosphere invites its guests to spend a few moments basking in the serenity, charm, and art of living. Room 206 has such a guest. The den is darkened from the absence of lights. A single sliver of color can be seen from under the closed bathroom door, where inside a woman is lounging in the bathtub, surrounded by scented candles. Her bewitchingly dark hair flows over the rim of the headrest, one smooth knee jutting from the foaming sea of fragrant bubbles. Her Greek features are slick with water--her rosy lips and long lashes, her defined nose that was taking in the smells of Paris from the opened window... 

Ronin, assassin, enigma, lover...

At base, Elektra is a woman, one who loves to surround herself with what little luxury her dirty lifestyle offered her. A stirring breeze wafts into the bathroom through the open window, cooling her face. Elektra's lashes slide to a close, the very air in the room around her seeming to hum with quiet meditation that mirrored the lazy radiance of her imported candles' slithering flames. Outside, the passive droning of idle chitchat from the patio café provides the perfect environment for romance. If only the life of an assassin and bounty hunter afforded such relaxation for long...

The subtle brushing of carpet in the ensuite double-bedroom gently stirs the Greek beauty's lashes into opening. Not an inch of her moves. Tranquility remains on her face as she strains to hear movement outside of the bathroom. A quick, nonchalant study of the ornate country door confirms that she hadn't locked it. The definitive sound of footsteps are approaching now, slowly headed in her direction. Heavy and calculated drags of the feet. Must be male, average build, roughly 160 lbs and--from the sound of his cautiousness--most definitely not a hotel employee. 

All of this Elektra can expertly point out just by listening to the pattern of sounds. A sudsy hand emerges from the foaming bubbles, her wet fingers slipping to curl over a gleaming metal sai lying on the tiled platform beside her. Like some watery goddess sinking back into her ocean lair, Elektra's arm, knee, and head slowly slip into the apple-green water, a cool inhale of air all she needs now to sustain herself underwater forever. All traces of bronze skin and raven hair disappear into the shallow, ivory depths as the door clicks with a quiet turn and creaks open. This wouldn't take long. 

There is a recession of sound before Elektra can hear herself being trapped inside the room, the door open narrowly and closing shut. The telltale footsteps of her visitor on the linoleum floor is more calculating than hesitant. It's obvious to him that the trailing scent of bath soap is warm and recent. Overhead, Elektra can feel the darkening of light around her as the man's figure hovers above the foam.Entombed in her tub like a submerged mummy, her heartbeat maintains a steady, unperturbed beat while the rest of her body follows its tranquility. Closer, closer. There's movement above her, the water reverberating with the cocked noise of a handgun pointed well at her sternum. Frighteningly, as if the woman likes working in slow-motion, a slick, gleaming blade rises from the watery depths and is pressed carefully between her visitor's legs.

This impasse continues on for quite some time, until the sai is fully in sight along with Elektra's sudsy, slim wrist. Her middle and fore fingers are curled over the trident that forms at its base. Quietly, Elektra surfaces, face brimming with white residue. She is temporarily blinded when she reveals herself to her guest. If he wanted her dead, he would have pulled that trigger by now. This man obviously wants a conversation.The rest of Paris pays no heed to them. A chill wind has entered the room, broken only by the sound of his voice.

"Your door--"

His voice suddenly rises to a shrill pitch. Elektra had pressed the tip of her sai deeper into the family jewels.

"--Your door was open."

A complete avalanche of the white lather atop her black hair into the water takes place before she bothers to answer him.

"I guess I was just expecting a visit," her rosy lips move.

Her visitor couldn't tell if her smile was genuine. The rest of her face, slippery with calm, remains on his figure but is otherwise bored by him.

"I didn't pay much to find you here. I'm even disappointed at the bell hop," comes the man's reply.

Elektra keeps absolutely still. More soap falls from her hair into the fragrant pool concealing the rest of her naked form.Her sai's twin rises like a steel leviathan and is readily pressed at his belly button, ruining, what she hoped, was an expensive merino shirt. The figure makes no sudden gestures in return. The standoff continues.

"I really don't appreciate all this talking," she confides, her voice sensual.

"Get out from the tub..." he lowers his weapon in reply, but Elektra is well ahead of him. She eyes her submerged bosom candidly.

"Turn around," she instructs.

Making a waltz of his spin, the man obliges her request and turns away to gaze outside her double windows.Elektra takes her sweet time dressing now that she has established confidence. This man obviously sees the value in preserving her life and that, in its own respect, quelled her suspicion: this was a potential employer. One bronze leg emerges over the side of the porcelain tub after another. Soon, the icon of exotic beauty—long-legged, sculpted body, tanned flesh—stands bathed by the dying afternoon light, drenched amidst the chill of pre-dusk air. The shadow of her profile plays along the papaya-colored country walls, its peeling paint the very essence of charming Parisian country life. A washcloth is pulled off the sink hanger to dry her hair. Her terry bathrobe, colored scarlet, is removed from a copper peg on the wall and is belted around her figure. She catches the man glancing over his shoulder every now and then, before retreating his eyes back to the outdoor café. This one was subtle, perhaps a paramour in another day and situation. He must trust her well, if he could maintain such a confident proximity to her. Nonetheless, at this range, Elektra can chuck her weapon into the fortress of his heart with nary a breath. But she wouldn't be doing that. Something about him compelled her to hear him out. He's done his homework as well. He knows Elektra isn't a fan of small talk, and so he's always the first to engage in conversation.

"This is the first time I've ever been in a bathroom with another woman with my clothes on," he comments, leaning his weight against the large, open window sill. "It's almost inspiring."

Elektra drops her hands to her sides, satisfied with this new dryness. She has a seat on the sink directly beside the tub, a shapely calf presented for the world to see as she rests her right foot on the tub's edge. Such private, carefree, -womanly- behavior. She moves the flap of her robe aside and lets her arms fall between her legs, brandishing those soap-coated blades. Hunched over lazily like this, Elektra's 16" inch vibranium weapons hover nearly to the ground. She watches him with subdued interest, taken, most of all, by his impudence. As if he was the first to approach her with a threat. As if he was in control here. Her dull gray eyes shift over to the Beretta that he indolently hung onto. This one was tall, refined. He's fair-skinned and light-haired, wearing a very becoming suit on his lean frame. His voice, too, is beautiful--mellifluous like a child's bedtime voice only full and strong. A shiver runs cold against her bare leg at his next remark, though she remains motionless.

"Now I have this older woman in my midst and I don't know what to -do- with you, Elektra."

Her guest slowly turned around to acknowledge her and for the first time, the Greek ronin got her first look at her new employer. For a moment's glance, he eyes her with some carnal interest. She doesn't return the look. The man continues. The change in his tone is obvious and forced.

"My name is LaSalle. I'm in need of your services," he deadens his tone. "This isn't going to be a hit where you get passed up the chain to work for someone else you only know by a name and a few cheap rumors, no. You'll be working for me. Your offer is five million for one head--wiith that amount, you can be here in Paris for the rest of the year."

LaSalle had no papers on him, but he advanced onward.

"His name is Wu Yin Gui. He's head of the Beijing International Technology and Trade Association. He's been targeting my company for the past year now, leveling out the cleanliness my associates and I have tried so hard to manufacture. I've decided he's bad for my enterprise. I want him off my tail."

Elektra felt like sticking her sai somewhere deep inside his body.

"Who sent you?" she replied calmly.

"I sent myself."

"You look barely old enough to drink."

"You'll have my money, and my word."

"That means absolutely nothing."

LaSalle registers her comment before taking a non-threatening step forward to slip his automatic into the bathtub. The green water hungrily devoured his offering.

"Look out the window," he moves aside to encourage her, and she does so with bored passivity.

Elektra imagined a rose compass on the periphery and looked in all directions. 

"What am I looking at?" she inquires innocently.

"The gentleman in the green shorts and black hat, sitting beside the redhead in the yellow sundress," her employer replied. Unable to elicit any form of response, LaSalle continues. 

"Are you listening to me carefully, Elektra? The laptop on his table is wired to explosives positioned beneath two strategic tables in the café. It's set to automatically report to and retrieve the Parisian police. I've been feeding this conversation to the gentleman in the hat for the past ten minutes now, through my ear transmitter."

Here, he unplugged a small listening device from his right ear, letting her have a good look at it before pressing it back inside its soft housing. Elektra turned her attention back to the man in the green shorts. 

"I say the word and he pushes a little button to detonate this entire western façade of the hotel into the Seine," he continues. "Your room number is going to appear on the distress call. Ten of my men are armed and waiting outside this door. If you leave, you'll be shot to bits."

Here, the silence is broken by the profound noise of a handgun being cocked. LaSalle had fished out another Beretta from his blazer and is now aiming for the base of her skull. 

"You have three options at this point. One, you can end up being the prime suspect in the homicide of sixteen American tourists. Two, you can step out this door and have that stunning body of yours cut in half by bullets. Or three...you can come with me and have five million in your hands by the end of the week. Enough for a hundred thousand bubble baths and sauvignon. Provided, that is...you do what you're told." 

La Salle remained still, not taunting her despite the fact he was like every other caricature of a handsome villain Elektra has encountered. He is a gentleman to the very last, waiting patiently through the entire minute of the silent standoff for her reply. As Elektra would have it, however, she isn't a woman of words. The robed assassin quietly attends to the tub and drains it of water. La Salle lowers his gun and opens the bathroom, door, escorting her out.

The signal is cleared, the clandestine servicemen lower their weapons. Outside in the patio, the cheque is called for the "tourist"couple's bill, and L'Ermitage Des Loges is still standing beside the Seine River, unharmed. La Salle motions for a manila folder to be handed over to Elektra. Inside are surveillance reports and photographs of her client. Soon, all traces of this man's existence will simply vanish like retreating smoke under the clean slice of vibranium steel. This was dirty work. She was being blackmailed. She might just kill LaSalle after this was over and run. Closing the folder, Elektra nods, sealing her involvement with the deal.

"I have to dress," her voice flows silently. She's barely audible. The men can scantly breathe through their stares.

LaSalle fishes her clothes from the bathroom and presses them in her hands. With a fluid hand gesture, the entire ring of black-suited escorts turn in unison on crisp heels, each of them facing away from her. Elektra is left to stand in the center of trouble and a suitcase fat with five million dollars in bounty inside. She eyes LaSalle's strapping back and continues to face him. The loose sound of her bathrobe as it slithers off her frame and hits the floor will be the only show of gratitude he'll get for his money. Elektra eyes the blood-red bodysuit in her hand and welcomes it like an old friend. She'll take all the time in the world she needs to in order to feel alone again.  
  
  
  
**DISCLAIMER: Marvel Comics owns Elektra****, I'm simply furthering this fascinating character. I welcome comments sent to Bohemian_Kris@yahoo.com****.**


End file.
